


I can see the end (but it hasn't happened yet)

by meremennen



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bellamy is hurt, Clarke is in doctor mode, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Clarke Griffin, or maybe this happened who says it didn’t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:13:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meremennen/pseuds/meremennen
Summary: He is not one used to being taken care of, that much is clear. He complains, a lot, almost endlessly, but he accepts the water flask without a word when she offers, after some minor prodding.Grumpy. Old. Man.One deep breath."Stop telling me you're okay. Now drink."





	I can see the end (but it hasn't happened yet)

**Author's Note:**

> Combination of various (Hurt/Comfort) prompts. 
> 
> Canon setting, season 1-ish because season 1 is the best and has a special place in my heart. Day Trip and Unity Day happened but things have slowed down from there. 
> 
> The beginning is a bit of jump between present and past/‘earlier that day’ kind of way, hope it will make sense.

 

* * *

 

 

Like most life-changing events do, it happens in an instant.

 

**

 

_..EARLIER.._

The weather is more than optimal to plan this trip: no clouds on the horizon, pleasantly warm and sunny. Clarke once read, their ancestors had called it Indian summer once, before the end of the world. The forest is breathtakingly beautiful like this. So colourful. She has been wishing just to take some time off with a big fluffy blanket and find a quiet place at the riverbank. To close her eyes and let the world slow down around her. Lie in the grass, and feel the sun on her skin, bathing in the warmth of the air, listening to the songbirds. 

In the distance, Monroe is showing up for guard duty, with Harper in tow. The boys standing down are handing over their weapons, simultaneously trying their hands at flirting. With that, reality is cutting through her daydreams. The supplies are running low, winter is coming, now is not the time.

 _Next year. Maybe sooner._  

She sighs and fastens the straps of her backpack.

Maybe this is their last chance before the first biting frost arrives and all the leaves fall to the ground. And that is why, within the hour she and a small group of trained hunters - and Bellamy Blake - are leaving the camp, with each step daring deeper into the woods on an extended scouting and hunting mission.

By now, her alliance with Bellamy has developed into an unofficial co-leadership albeit it is still shaky at the edges. For what it's worth, she respects him. And even though Bellamy has not said it with as many words - and he still addresses her ' _Princess_ ' on one too many occasions - his voice is not filled with mockery anymore and she knows he does respect her too.

 

**

 

"Bellamy! Watch out!"

Clarke shouts, adrenaline pounding loud in her veins, perfectly in sync with her heart. Her heart is beating so hard - she swears, it wants to escape her ribcage. It also feels like that all her otherwise muted senses are coming into life all at once.

It's exhilarating and scary.

She can taste the tension in the air; the smell of fear and death are mingling with the scent of sweat and copper. Her hands are rubbing against her thighs, itching and uneasy. She is awfully aware of the leftover mud under her fingernails from digging through the soil for the medicinal roots for hours earlier - the roots Lincoln has told them where was best to look for.

Bellamy came with her, of course. He was supposed to be leading the rest of their group, and let Myles accompany her to the clearing. (Just like they agreed the day before, before bidding goodbye for the night.)

But when it was time to split up, he has seemingly thought better of it and surprising everyone, herself included, he stated he’d be coming with her instead, leaving Jasper in charge. And that was it. She argued. But did he listen?

No.

(" _Humor me, Princess. No one leaves camp without a trained companion. Myles is a decent hunter but - he would also shoot his own feet without a backup._ ") 

They are separated from the hunters for hours now when the black panther attacks them near dusk.

She saw a few of these wild cats before, one up close on that one hellish occasion. Hell, she even tasted their flesh; and thanks to her recurring shooting lessons it only takes one precise gunshot between their eyes before the animal is giving in with a loud puff, slumping deep into the overgrown grass, body lifeless. Their teeth are barred, paws are bloody.

It doesn’t take long until Bellamy is wailing in pain, clutching onto his sides. She doesn't have to look to know the animal has gotten a swipe at him _this time_ before she pulled the trigger.

She looks anyway.

 

***

 

If she has to guess, the Sun is setting in about an hour. She manages to get him upright before he puts his arm around her shoulders, and with her help - “Yes. Just like that... I’m going to wrap my arm around your waist now... Come on.” - leaning heavily against Clarke, he is able to limp to the cave they saw in passing on their way in earlier.

As they go, she plans.

Shelter. Fire. Water. Blood. Infection.

Her mind wanders. There are like a hundred and one other, not so pressing matters invading her thoughts.

_Why are they here today? Why is Bellamy, her ruggedly handsome albeit very opinionated co-leader of close to ninety delinquents, with her?_

_Weren’t they supposed to keep a better balance of leadership? So why did they even decide to leave camp together?_

_Are all his freckles real? What if some of the constellations peppering his face are a mere delusion of the unusual autumn heat? Like a mirage..._

_He is so warm. Is that normal for him?_

And some are truly uncalled for:

_Why is his t-shirt so goddamn snug against his chest and arms? And why is it less blue and more of a dirt colour now than she remembers? Did he ever think of kissing her? Would she let him?_

_Why is she thinking about kissing Bellamy Blake when he feels kinda sweaty and way too warm and covered in blood?_

_She doesn’t feel that lonely, does she?_

_(Sometimes she does.)_

 

*

 

There is no other option than to spend the night in the cave and pray to whatever deity that Myles or Jasper will eventually go looking and succeed in finding them.

Her Earth Skills training is thankfully truly kicking in.

Clean the wound. Infection can kill just as fast as hypothermia.

Fire and water next.

“Take your shirt off,” she prods him.

“Aw, Clarke. If you wanted to see more of me -,“ he winces as he complies and lifts his arms, peeling the bloody garment off his body” - naked - “ Another wince. This one is accompanied by a long huff,” -   next time, all you have to do is ask.”

Logically, she knows the half-hearted joke is more to himself than to tease her. She ducks her head regardless and blushes in a soft pink.

 

*

 

The gash isn’t too deep, but it’s long, starting on his side and running all the way to just below his navel. Thankfully, the claws didn’t do any irreparable damage, at least not visibly. Like with every injury down here, only time will tell.

She cleans his wound as best as she can with the supplies at hand: A piece of cloth and a small medical kit (including a small vial of moonshine) and a splash of the water she has in her backpack. Ever since the attack on Jasper after they landed, she had made sure to keep the red seaweed, dried and crushed, packed in small sachets.

She throws a handful of seaweed into her mouth and grinds it into a paste with her teeth, while she builds the fire. When it feels smooth enough under her tongue, she applies the impromptu ointment gently onto his skin with the pads of her fingers.

He is not one used to being taken care of, that much is clear. He complains, a lot, almost endlessly, but he accepts the water flask without a word when she offers, after some minor prodding.

 _Grumpy. Old. Man_.

One deep breath.

"Stop telling me you're okay. Now drink."

 

*

 

He throws another hissy fit, groaning in pain when she re-dresses him in his t-shirt. She didn’t bother to clean it entirely from the blood, but she made a tolerable effort in rinsing and wringing it out.

Her tongue is probably coloured bright red by now. Some would think she was licking at his wound and drank his blood.

She also prepares some tea, using the metal flask to heat the water, and makes him drink the warm liquid too.

 

**

 

She ventures out in search for water and to collect more dry branches of wood that feeds their fire. By the time she returns, he develops a true fever, despite her best efforts.

He doesn't say a word of course.

His forehead is coated in sweat, goosebumps are dotting his arms - more prominent at places where the light from the fire illuminates his skin.

One touch against his forehead with the back of her hand is enough to tell her what she already suspects:

"You're burning up."

 

**

 

She curls around him. It’s not much, but she doesn’t want him to catch a cold on top of things from being exposed. The fire is providing enough heat, but his body is angled in a way that he doesn’t have to put unnecessary pressure on the wound but it still provides easy access for her to change the seaweed poultice. His shirt is ridden up on his back, so the small of his back is exposed.

A few inches of bare skin. That’s her main reason to spoon him. That and easy access.

 

*

 

He falls asleep at some point but his sleep is fitful. His breathing is irregular, sometimes he murmurs. Even though she is close enough, it’s mostly gibberish to her ears.  She catches Octavia’s name once through the haze, and he mumbles something about his Mom and how it had been all his fault.

He shakes.

She is unsure if he is fighting against a sob building or it’s merely his body fighting off the infection. But the way his voice is breaking reminds her of the night they were both raw and open, leaning against the rough bark of a tree, trying to find their breath. He asked her to leave camp _with him_ , in an attempt to leave their demons behind. She was tempted in her heart but her head said no.

She realizes then that there are so much more Bellamy hasn’t talked about yet when it comes to him. She is learning him in pieces. Tonight she learns there is another heavy burden on his shoulders, that is weighing on him, and rooted deep within him, silently festering. Maybe she can treat his visible wounds, but she is not sure what to do about the ones he’s hiding.

It breaks her heart.

 

*

 

The shaking eventually abates. When he jerks awake, she makes him drink the tea.

He utters a 'Thanks', but his smile is weak.

She brushes away tufts of wet hair that are sticking to his skin from his forehead and ears. His skin feels clammy but surprisingly soft under her fingers. Despite the two days of stubble, he looks so young, more boyish in his sleep. His freckles are splattered everywhere on his face and neck, coated in a thick layer of sweat. His eyelids are closed and restless.

 

*

 

"Clarke?” His eyes flutter, blinking sleepily.

She swallows, propping herself on her elbows first, then shifting her weight onto her palms and leans in and closer that he can see her.

She attempts a smile. “Hey, just look at me. I’m here.”

“Please, don’t leave me alone.”

His voice is raw and pleading.

She snuggles closer.

_I’m here._

"Hold my hand. You're going to be fine."

She lays back down behind him and slides her hand in his, allowing herself to intertwine their fingers. Squeezing them in reassurance, embracing him from behind.

"Get some sleep."

She presses a kiss against the back of his head. It’s a quick peck, but regardless, being in the close proximity of him and his body is so intimate, she feels her blush returning. Probably his mother used to do the same, kiss his forehead or cheeks and kiss the pain away, when he was tortured by nightmares or lying in bed and curled up on himself the same way, fighting a fever as a boy.

It’s not the same, she knows, especially not with the fuzzy feelings warming her in the inside, but the intent is pure and she hopes it will help him pull through.

 _Don't die, Bellamy. Don't you dare die on me._  

He shivers. Maybe - somehow - he can hear her.

He squeezes her hand, almost like he needs the reassurance of her presence. She squeezes him back.

“Just breathe,” she whispers and mindlessly begins to hum a lullaby her Dad taught her.

 

Soon, crickets start playing another round of their evening serenade.

A few more hours and dawn breaks.

His breathing evens out eventually and she drifts off to sleep.

  
  
*** *

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.
> 
> Title from _Breathing Underwater_ by Metric (i love love love the acoustic version of this song)
> 
> You can find a graphics/edit in [this post](http://meremennen.tumblr.com/post/182403109243/i-can-see-the-end-but-it-hasnt-happened-yet).


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